life, death, love and other forms of poetry by alcoholic poet

Eyes closed I stumble down the stairs. Boxes is full of nothing greet me. The door closes behind. The world paces above my head. Deciding on trivial things. The wolf waits for the piglets to build their houses.

Only they never do.

The numbers betray. Our morality of when. No one fits. We have been. Or will not ever be. The asshole of this time machine spits us out again.

Left with the buttons we pressed as only consolation. Confined to the basement. Lapping up the sunlight that sneaks in.

Paused on the adjective. The bit of flesh that would cure this apple of its poison.